


Sobriety's a Bitch

by Generous_Nut_Bouquet



Category: Grabbers (2012)
Genre: Anal Gaping, Anal tearing, Asphyxiation, Forced Pregnancy, I feel no guilt, Impossible Stretching, Kidnapping?, Man/Alien Sea Creature, Mild Gore, No Pleasure, Other, Oviposition, Rape, Stomach Bulge, Tentacle Rape, Urethral Play, bulging, but it's a giant alien tentacle monster, cumflation, dick expansion, i took some liberties, incorrect descriptions of various internal organs and how they function, mild body horror, more or less, physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 03:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Generous_Nut_Bouquet/pseuds/Generous_Nut_Bouquet
Summary: O'Shea, trailing the female Grabber's pheromones, had led the male down to the construction site in hopes of leaving it hanging high and dry once the sun came up. But now, with a throbbing knee, a (possibly) broken rib and a thick, sinewy tentacle wrapped firmly around his waist, he thinks maybe he should have just stayed in the bar and gotten drunk with the rest of the town. But there's not enough alcohol in the country to get him through what is going to happen next......tldr: Lisa doesn't show up with her conveniently timed backhoe and O'Shea learns what is feels like to mate with a tentacle monster from space.





	Sobriety's a Bitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BattyPastel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BattyPastel/gifts).



> Rape. Rape. Rape. FYI, this is a huge trigger for people, so please note that it's in the tags and you have been warned. O'Shea does not come out happy in this.
> 
> I wanted to indulge in some tentacle rape fantasy and this movie is great for it, so here it is. It probably needs some more editing, but I'll come back and do that later.
> 
> For BattyPastel, who puts up with my wildly shifting attention span and nebulous promises of monster porn only occasionally delivered on. Here's 11 pages of monster fucking nonsense. I hope you enjoy it <3

O'Shea has never liked Lovecraft that much: tales of extra-dimensional tentacled horrors, unfathomable monstrosities from deep within the ocean, or from beyond the farthest star, and things that could drive a man mad with a mere glimpse were, in his humble opinion, just a bit too campy and silly to really be enjoyable; Now, plummeting through the air, his hopes of escaping some fucked up but very real and very terrifying Cthulian nightmare dwindling in proportion with the space between his body and the ground, he finds that he can't bring himself to appreciate the irony. 

Something goes  _ Pop! Crack! _ when he lands. White hot agony, sharp as needles, lances through his leg from his knee down to his toes. He might scream- blood is roaring in his ears, pulsing in time to the pain, so he's not sure- but he sure as hell moves, scrabbling with his hands and his good leg in the slippery soft mud to get  _ back back back  _  as far as he can. It is not far enough -- nothing is far enough, the end of the galaxy wouldn't be far enough -- and he can't help but feel that the  _ thing _ is  _ looking _ right at him as it leans carefully over the lip of the quarry. He clutches at his (possibly broken) rib and tries to breathe shallowly. At least Lisa got away, small blessings.

His fingers nudge cool metal in the mud at his side and he grasps at it; The flare gun is tiny and he doesn't know how much good it will do against the creature's bulk, thick skin and sinew, but it gives him some small comfort, false though it may turn out to be. It is his last resort, sort of: the acrid smell of petrol is all around him, but he isn't keen on lighting the place up while he is trapped in the middle of the blast radius. Even if he were particularly suicidal, self-immolation wouldn't be his prefered method, and anyway, the creature is still just outside of the quarry, and he has no intention of going out in a literal blaze of glory if it will only singe the thing’s proverbial eyebrows. 

Of all the times to be clear headed and sober, he thinks. He really wishes he had his flask on him. 

The monster chooses that moment to heave itself down into the pit with him. It lands in the mud a scant twenty feet away, its thicker limbs catch it and support the node of its body in the air for a moment, and he hears a series of short, clipped busts of noise, like a broken vacuum trying to start up. It takes him a moment of panicked bafflement to conclude that the thing is sniffing the air, or at least something like it. 

 

The snuffling noises taper off after a few seconds and t goes silent, tilting just a bit towards him. O'Shea holds perfectly still, even holds his breath, and the only noise in the quarry is the sound of rain drumming off of the stone and metal around them. When the creature finally does move, heaving its bulk forward with a push of its powerful tentacles, something in the animal part of his brain screams. It somersaults, one big loop of limbs and mud, and almost faster than he can blink he finds himself in trapped in a cage of ropy limbs with its circular, saw-like maw inches from his face.

_ This is it _ . he thinks and a feeling of calm falls over him as he levels the flare gun at the gaping hole. At this range he can't miss and he doesn't think that anything can take a flare to the guts and survive, not even a monster like this. 

He never gets the chance to pull the trigger: A tentacle wraps itself around his wrist and jerks, hard; The bones of his shoulder grind and pop as the monster forces it to bend at an unnatural angle --he screams again, can't help it; it's half rage and frustration and half pain, and the gun slips from his fingers. Above him the monster freezes as if his screaming had surprised it, and after a moment the lightning sharp pain fades into an acute burn. He doesn't think that it is broken, but that's a hollow comfort because now there is nothing between him and the creature hovering over him.

Is it going to eat him? It's mouth is certainly big enough to fit all of him with one bite. It would be a bit like going through a meat grinder, he thinks. Like the one down at the butcher that turns shanks of meat into hamburger.

He feels the chilly touch of another tentacle as it slides under the cuff of his pants leg and wraps itself around his calf. It's one of the big ones that flare at the end, with the wiggling feelers at the tip. It pulls a little, dragging him towards the thing until he is flat on his back in the mud staring up at it, right arm extended and twisted awkwardly above his head and the sole of his boot just barely touching the thing's...trunk...body....whatever. This close he can see the details of its rubbery skin and he can certainly smell it -- rotting fish, salt and something so completely wrong, unearthly, alien, that he has no words to describe it. His heart is hammering in his throat and he feels like he is going to be sick; It's going to pull him apart then, rip his leg and arm from their sockets, like cruel children with a cricket. Maybe it will watch him writhe in agony before finishing him off. Do giant tentacle monsters get off on that kind of thing?

But it does not do that. Several smaller tentacles, no bigger than O'Shea's pinky, slide from the writhing mass and touch his face, his hair, his neck. A couple find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath it, feeling their way across his ribs and belly; They are frigid and wet. His body tries to flinch away automatically, but he forces himself to hold very still, until one of them presses on his damaged rib and he can't hold back a whine of pain. To his surprise, the pressure lets up immediately, and the tentacle slides away from the spot and continues on its way across his chest. 

He wonders what it is doing. It has him. It is so close he can see the serrations on its teeth, but it is just crowding him against the ground, touching him, making low growling noises. Almost as if it’s….confused.

Paddy's exact words, in all of their disconcerting glory, are echoing in his ears:

_ You're carrying around the female's scent: It'll try and mount you, somehow....uhh. Failing that, it'll try to rip you limb from limb in frustration _ .

That had been a _ joke _ . One in very poor taste, as Paddy’s jokes always tended to be when he was drunk, but a joke nonetheless. And yet the sinewy arm wrapped around his leg wasn't wrenching or tearing or pulling, it just...held him, the small feelers on the end brushing his flesh like a caress as the thing studied him, eyeless, yes, but he knows, somehow, that it can see him. Adam had called it an animal, "just an animal" he had said, before the thing had sent his body flying like a ragdoll halfway to America, but O'Shea has the distinct impression that the monster is smarter than that, that it is considering him, the shape of him, literally feeling him out. Doused in the female's pheromones he might be, and maybe that was what had led the monster to him to begin with, but he doesn't think the creature is truly fooled. But it can't fuck him, there is no way, it is physically impossible, and he is sure that the creature is figuring that out. So that leaves the 'rip you limb from limb' part, right? But it doesn't seem inclined towards that, either, for the moment at least. So then what is it waiting for? What is it...thinking?

Another cool limb -- thicker this time, maybe the width of his hand -- slithers through the mud to his hip where it plucks delicately at the seam of his jeans for a moment before gliding upward across his belly. He can feel the suckers on the underside catching and releasing the fabric of his jacket as it moves. Like the smaller ones, it, too, finds the hem of his shirt and presses under it. It drapes itself across his abdomen, then pushes underneath him and loops around until it is holding his torso loosely. Maybe it's going to crush him then? Squeeze him until his innards explode outward from the pressure? Cut off his ability to breath and watch him suffocate?

The suckers undulate gently against his flesh and he wonders if they have hooks inside of them, like squids or octopi or something else wiggly and creepy. Maybe, then, its plan is to rend him to bits and let him bleed out into the mud.

 

They don’t. But now some of  the slender limbs are slipping past the cuffs of his jeans to slide up his calves. He kicks his free leg at one, and is rewarded with a sudden cuff around the head that makes him see stars as another thick limb pins the offending leg firmly to the ground. 

"Damnit, just kill me already." He mutters, tongue thick in his mouth and his ears ringing like church bells. He doesn't mean it; He doesn't want to die, but this delicate manhandling is freaking him out more than the monster’s initial pursuit of him had. Is this the Lovecraftian version of playing with its food? Is this because of the pheromones? Is it just curious? If so, it has had a good number of other people to gently probe with its freaky fucking tentacles, and part of him honestly wants the thing to get on with it already, because the longer it stalls the more frightened he becomes, and to be perfectly honest, he’d rather go suddenly and violently than slowly and in terror..

One of the tentacles sneaking up his leg finds his underwear and worms underneath it. He swears and tries to squirm away but the limb around his middle tightens warningly. Another follows, and another. He feels them brush against his balls and his dick and shudders. That is a whole lot of nope, yes it is. An overly friendly one prods gently at his slit that is more than enough and he tells the creature so, in so many words, using his loose hand to brush frantically at the crotch of his pants like it makes any kind of difference. He feels the tip of the tentacle press experimentally inward.

"Wait" He begs, voice high and more than a little panicked. His heart is thundering against his aching ribs, pain throbbing through his side in time to his skyrocketing pulse. This isn't right. He should have shot the damn thing with the flare. He should have lit himself on fire when he had the chance. He should have--

The tentacle pushes down his urethra. Just a little bit, but it hurts; His dick burns as the delicate tissue stretches too far too fast, and it's cold in a very unpleasant way. He makes a garbled sort of noise and tries to jerk against the limb holding his other arm hostage. Unsurprisingly, it refuses to let him go and it just results in a new wave of pain racking his shoulder. Another one of the thicker limbs cuffs him around the head again, harder this time, and although it wasn't a particularly hard strike by the creature's standards -- his head is still attached after -- he lays dazed and pliant for a moment as the forest of teeth and tentacles swim around him in a drunken blur. The little one continues to worm its way down the inside of his dick and gradually, thankfully, the pain of being stretched in such an intimate place is replaced by a cool tingling feeling, like menthol. It still burns, but it's a numbing kind of burn, as if he’d been shot full of novacane, and while that’s certainly not  _ better _ , it’s something.. 

Another small tentacle finds his ass: It prods gently at his cheeks, running along the cleft to his taint and back up to the base of his spine. He clenches his muscles and hopes that the tentacle will lose interest and move on. No such luck: it is joined by another and another, until there are six slim appendages prodding at his crack, pushing at the globes of his ass with increasing insistence until one manages to shove its way in.

"I don't know what you think you're doing" he tells the monster, voice shaking "but you're not gaining anything with this. You're not...." how, exactly, did one reason with something like this? Tell it that he is not the female it's looking for? Sure, why not. Why not try and convince the impossible alien creature that it doesn’t really want to tentacle fuck him in the ass like a bad Japanese hentai? "I know how I ....smell?...but I don't have your eggs. Or your...woman? If your aim is to kill me, you might as well get on with it. The sun'll be coming up in a couple of hours and you'll be crispy calamari. Really, you might as well let me go...."

He feels the slimy little thing press against his sphincter and changes tactics: he throws his head back into the mud and screams for help. Hopefully Lisa is still close enough that she will hear him. God, he doesn't want poor sweet Lisa anywhere near this thing, but he doesn't want this, either -- he'll take death by fire over a tentacle up the ass any day.

His voice echoes off the excavation equipment and the high stone walls but there is no answering cry, no fiery relief from this nightmare; Only the slow, cold push inward as the tentacle forces its way inside of him, inch by writhing inch, stretching and contracting like a worm as it burrows deeper and deeper. He screams again and again, his throat raw with his desperation. But nothing happens. No help comes. The sun does not magically rise over the horizon to save the day (and his dignity). Instead, the creatures seems to grow tired of his noise, and rams a tentacle into his open mouth with so much force that he can practically feel the bruise forming on the back of his throat. He gags violently, thrashing, rib and shoulder be damned, as his air is cut off and his body convulses, trying to rid him of the obstruction to his airway. The creature is unmoved, however, and holds him where it wants him with casual force. He can vaguely feel more of the little writhey tentacles press in after the first -- how many, he can’t tell -- but even over the panic and adrenaline flooding his system with  _ flight, flight flight run run run _ , he can feel their chill as they work their way up his large intestine. 

 

Black spots explode across his tear-smudged vision. He’s losing feeling in his extremities -- he can’t feel the wet ground beneath his fingers anymore, or the scrape of his bootheels; He can’t even tell if he’s still kicking. The writhing things slide an inch- two inches -- deeper, maybe, and he can honestly say that he’s never had something so invasively  _ inside _ of him, not even during a doctor's check, or during his ex-wife’s better-left-forgotten experimental phase. 

 

He’s sure that the thing is going to choke him to death ( _ finally, finally) _ when the pressure in his throat lets up and the tentacle backslides a little -- enough to let him gasp wet, heaving lungfuls of air around it -- but does not remove itself completely from his mouth.

 

He takes a moment to catch his breath, then bites down as hard as he can. It’s like biting a tire, and the creature hardly seems to notice. He grinds his teeth down onto it anyway until his gums ache, a low, frustrated noise leaking past the rank flesh stretching his lips. His vision blurs with angry frightened tears. 

 

_ Just kill me,  you fucker _ he pleads wordlessly.  His gut aches dully with the pressure of the writhing appendages squirming their way  _ still further and further _ inside of him and he has a horrific mental image of them wiggling their way through him and pressing up his throat and exploding out his mouth,  tying his intestines in knots, ripping them outward, through his ribs and the soft flesh of his belly. His mouth and throat are burning and numb,  like he'd chugged a bottle of menthol or mouthwash, the same numb that has spread from his penis to his balls, now, and it’s upsetting on a primal level to not be able to feel anything at all where his junk should be. 

 

The creature shifts above him,  rolling back a little on its trunk. It pulls him along with it,  until his shoulders and neck are digging painfully into the skree beneath him and his legs are splayed in the air.  More slender tentacles slide across his legs, prodding curiously at the filthy, sodden denim of his jeans until they find the waistline; O'Shea cries out, sure that they are also going to find their way into his clothing to violate his ass. Instead,  they grasp the cloth with surprising dexterity and rend it down the center, destroying the button and zipper and the seam at his crotch and the inner thigh with little effort. Through the gap he can see where the tentacles disappear into his underwear.  He can see the writhing bulge of the tentacle still crammed down his dick, and he can see, with a surreal feeling of horror, that his dick is half-hard. He can't feel it, but he can see it and the effect is something like what he imagines a shock victim must feel like upon seeing their own blood or muscles or internal organs exposed to open air. The same tentacles that had rent his jeans make equally short work of his underwear. His dick,  impaled as it is, does not flop forward as it should, but O'Shea is at an angle that he can well enough see that the tentacle filling it is much thicker than he had assumed, thick enough that he can see a little bit of a bulge where the thing has slid down his urethra, and that there is a thin trail of blood seeping from the tip and over his glands. The tentacle twists once, then twice, then withdraws. His dick, finally released, falls forward, the tip gaping open wide enough that O’Shea probably could have slipped his pointer finger inside with little trouble. Clear fluid turned pink with his blood drips from the tip and lands on his cheek where it burns like ice.

 

He’s so distracted by the shock of panic that this evokes in him that he almost misses the pulling sensation at his ass. He tears his eyes away from his penis just in time to see a thick, translucent tentacle slide out of the writhing mass holding him in place and make its way between his thighs to nestle against his hole. 

 

This tentacle is much larger than the small ones and he can feel it forcing his sphincter wider and wider as it pushes inward,  even through the weird numbness; He still expects it to hurt like motherfucker, and the initial press of it past the loosened ring of muscle is definitely uncomfortable,  but unlike the smaller appendages holding him open, it only enters him a couple of inches before it stops. For a very brief moment O'Shea feels a spark of hope that the creature has changed its mind; then he sees the first of the nodules making its way down the length of the tentacle. 

 

Because the tentacle is only semi-transparent he can't quite see the object sliding quickly towards him but he, with chilling,  devastating certainty, knows that it is an egg. He's not sure how he knows, exactly, but he can see clearly, in his mind’s eye, the milky white shell and the horrid, slimy insides of the one they had cracked open, and he just  _ knows _ : the instincts of a prey animal trapped by a predator, he thinks, more than a little hysterically. Does the spider know its time is up when it encounters the spider wasp? But this...this one isn’t one of the females? Was it? The females were the smaller ones…or so said the now deceased marine biologist, and what had his expertise gotten him?

 

None of that matters, in the end. What matters are the nodules and his very strong aversion to the idea of becoming a monster incubator, or whatever this…this thing is planning on using him for.  He attempts to wriggle his way out of the creature’s hold because fuck all of this, but especially fuck that, but his attempts are as useless as baby bird against a cat. He thrashes as hard as he can,  and howls around his putrid gag but he can hardly move an inch. His ribs are on fire, his leg is throbbing and he can feel his shoulder grinding and popping in a way that will probably mean bad news later on (if he even has a later on to look forward to). And yet he may as well be laying perfectly still for all the good it does him. He keeps doing it anyway, though, because those things are the size of fucking softballs, and he has never, in his entire life, wondered what it would be like to shove a softball up his ass and it’s not a sensation he particularly wants to explore now.

 

Though ultimately he has no choice.

 

There is enormous pressure on his asshole, forcing its way in with enough persistence that he can feel the delicate tissue stretching and stretching and stretching to its limit, then tearing in order to accommodate the enormous girth trying to breach it; He can feel it as it rips his flesh, even through the powerful deadening effect he’s been experiencing. He can feel the hot trickle of his own blood against the cold skin of his tailbone and lower spine, and even though he can’t see it from his position, he can feel every centimeter as it forces its way slowly inside. He can feel the minute that it’s all the way in him, and he can feel the next one that immediately takes its place, shoving against the abused pucker before it even has a chance to feel relief. The egg already inside of him shifts in the tight confines of his intestine; The tentacles inside of him begin to squirm and pulse and slowly, bit by careful bit, the egg drags its way further into his guts, guided by the slender appendages. From the outside the shell of the egg had looked smooth as carved marble, but it doesn’t feel smooth as it stretches his deepest recesses and scrapes against the delicate flesh inside of him: It feels like sandpaper, or steel wool or something equally abrasive and he can’t help but be grateful that he can’t feel the worst of it.

 

The second egg makes it inside, immediately followed by a third and a fourth. He hadn’t paid much attention to how far the slim tentacles had violated him past a certain point, but as they drag the eggs deeper and deeper into his bowls -- as he watches them drag the eggs, because while he has a bit more padding on his gut than an officer of the law probably should, the eggs are large enough that the distention they cause in his stomach is visible through his fat and skin -- he begins to realize that they had penetrated him deeper than he had thought. He watches the first egg shift its way under his rib cage, following the bend of his large intestine, edge its way around his navel and slide bit by painful bit down his other side, followed by a slow parade of companions until his gut looked like it had been draped with a fleshy pearl necklace. He screams and screams...or at least, he thinks he does. He can feel tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, snot running from his nose and saliva at the corners of his mouth, dripping past the tentacle still clamped between his teeth -- more as a brace against the pain, now, than because he thinks the thing can feel it -- but he can’t feel his throat, and he can’t hear himself over the white noise in his ears, the staticy rush of blood and fear. 

 

Eventually the eggs stop moving, and there is a moment of stillness from the creature. O’Shea barely registers it, though, trembling in the monster’s grasp and gasping wet, ragged breaths through the stretched, raw, burning pain wracking his abdomen. He doesn’t notice when the tube-like length withdraws from his gaping, bleeding hole, only to be replaced by a smaller, slicker one. He, staring blankly up at the towering cage of limbs and teeth that keep him prisoner with wet, unblinking eyes, doesn’t notice as it slinks its way through the lumps deforming his stomach, nor does he register it as the other, smaller tentacles withdraw as well, their job completed;  He does notice, however, the first rush of hot, burning fluid that the monster pumps into him.

 

_ Semen _ he thinks, dully, as he watches the mass in his guts shift beneath his skin.  _ The big one is hermaphroditic. _ There is a dull pulsing feeling and then another hot rush of fluid and another and another. It leaks out of his ass and down his back, stinging his torn asshole and leaving a burning trail across his skin. The flesh around the eggs distends further as the fluid is forced into him in steady, massive loads and even the parts of his intestines that hadn’t been packed with eggs begin to bloat as the monster’s cum fills him and fills him and fills him.

 

Maybe something inside of him will rupture and he’ll die, he hopes. The creature can use his corpse however it likes, after that, as a condom or an egg sac or whatever, he no longer cares. He just wants this to be over. He aches all over and he’s afraid that once the numbing effect wears off the pain will be intolerable. He wonders what the creature will do with him once it’s done filling him up. Will it just leave him here? How long do these eggs take to hatch and when they do, will the babies just tear their way out of his belly? 

 

The creatures ejaculations slow after a minute, becoming gradually weaker and weaker until they finally stop. He feels the long, thick dick inside of him withdraw inch by inch, gushes of hot jizz escaping his abused body as it does. The tentacle in his mouth pulls out as well but he no longer has it in him to shout to scream. The monster had fucked him and filled him full of eggs and cum, what more did he have to scream about? At this point, he’d rather no one find him.

 

He tips his head to the side, and he can just see the flare gun a few feet away, knocked far out of his reach. He’s still pinned, and doesn’t have the energy to move, now, even if he wanted too. He imagines reaching for it, though, and grasping it, and doing what he should have done in the first place, firing it into the petrol that surrounds them and going out in a giant fucking fireball. 

 

Thick, solid muscle engulfs him as the monster scoops him carefully from the ground and cradles him against its body with unnerving gentleness. It surprises him a little, but then again, he’s carrying its eggs so he supposes a bit of careful handling is not out of the question. 

 

Gentle though it may be, there is no room for escape as it heaves itself back up onto it’s limbs and slings itself up the quarry walls and onto the ground above. He can feel the numbing effect beginning to wear off and the sharp ache in his gut is becoming more and more pronounced. He tightens his abdominal muscles, trying to push the masses out, or even just a little bit of the fluid clogging him up, anything to give him some relief from the building, insistent  _ pressure _ , but they hardly budge. Even the flow of semen has slowed to a sticky trickle and, when he presses a hand over the distention in his gut it gives much less than he’d expected.

 

As the monster from the sea carries him off into the night, O’Shea despairs; He’s well and truly caught, and his death will be a slow and horrifying one.

 

Of all the nights to be sober. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, opinions, criticism and grammar/spell checks are welcomed and appreciated, as always


End file.
